Anthology2011

Where Is Home? Nancy Sturm I’ve always struggled to answer those seemingly simple, innocent questions: “Where are you from? Where’s home?” Whenever someone asks me that, I have to pause. Well…that’s a difficult question to answer. You see, my dad was in the military; I was an Air Force brat. When I was three I had already lived in four states and one foreign country. Before I turned 15, I’d lived in four more states and another foreign country. So how do I answer that question? Where is home? The first place I remember is Japan. But the memories are vague: in my mind I see snow-capped Mount Fuji and the faces of Japanese children staring at us when we drove off base. While I don’t remember many more specifics, I recall a sense of feeling loved and secure in Japan. Even though I can remember a few Japanese words ( ichi, ni san, shi go roku), I can’t really call Japan “home.” Within two years we had moved again, this time to El Paso, Texas, where I started school, and I remember learning Spanish. After school we climbed over the rock fence and played in the desert filled with sand, cactus and lizards. My best friend Susan and I received identical purple bicycles for Christmas. In order to keep us safe and identify our bicycles, my dad painstakingly cut our names out of red reflective tape and stuck them to the back fenders. When I wasn’t riding my bike, I played croquet with family and the neighbors. We smacked the wooden balls through metal hoops, rejoicing at a good shot. But I still don’t consider El Paso “home.” From the desert of El Paso we moved to Madison, Wisconsin, where the lake freezes so solid, trucks drive across it. We skated, played hockey and built snowmen. Afterward, Mom always had a steaming cup of hot chocolate and freshly baked cookies for us. On weekends we visited my grandmother’s restaurant in Janesville, a short drive away. All four of us children sat proudly at the counter in Grandma Grace’s café. All the staff knew to fix “whatever they want” for Gracie’s grandchildren, even though my brother once ordered blueberry pie with catsup. My grandmother planted pink gladiolas and purple and yellow pansies all around our house, and our large vegetable garden yielded delicious tomatoes, cucumbers, and sweet corn. But we left there after two years, so I can’t really call Wisconsin “home.” Once again, we moved, this time to a foreign country. In the North Atlantic Ocean, north and east of Maine, lies the island of Newfoundland, part of Canada, where we lived. After school all the kids sledded and skied on the hill across the street. We built snow forts, each four foot high and large enough to hold seven to eight children. Two teams of kids stockpiled hundreds of snowballs in those forts. On the signal “Go!” the snowball fight began! While we lived in Canada, Mom worked. In spite of her job, she still fixed great meals and spent time with her children. Dad purchased a console record player with a radio. Many evenings we sat around that radio, picking up signals from programs in Europe. One time we heard a story from Russia about St. Nick. Even though I have great memories of Newfoundland, I don’t consider it “home.”From cold, snowy Newfoundland we moved to hot, arid Irrigation repair Las Vegas, Nevada. The weather wasn’t the only change; the culture was vastly different. In Newfoundland we received a few hours of British television a day, but entertainment ruled in vegas. Gone were the lobster pots, pine trees, and rugged Atlantic shorelines. In their place we had rocks, sand, and the bright lights of the strip. Mom and I often went shopping and stopped for a girls’ lunch at the Sands or the Dunes. Now that we children were older, we had more responsibilities at home. If we overslept on Saturdays, Dad awakened us by playing “The William Tell Overture” with the volume turned up full blast! We lived across the street from the grade school, so just before Christmas Dad put the stereo speakers in the front windows. After school when the children walked past our house, he turned the stereo on and played, “Here Comes Santa Claus” loudly enough for the children to hear. When it was too hot to play outside, we stayed in and played canasta, Michigan Rummy, or liar’s dice. I still visit Las Vegas because my oldest brother lives there, but Vegas is not “home.” Before my sophomore year of high school Dad was transferred to McConnell Air Force Base near Wichita, Kansas. All my friends in Vegas were sure I’d ride a horse to school! Of course, I didn’t; I rode the bus from the base to high school. When I looked out the window at school, I didn’t see sand; instead I saw the bright green, narrow leaves of winter wheat. I watched the green wheat mature and turn into golden waves, ready for harvest. Once again we acclimated to humid summers and cold winters. On Christmas Eve each of us children invited one friend to Mom’s scrumptious buffet. After eating, the whole family played games with our guests, laughing, talking, and nibbling snacks until late at night. In the summer we spent countless hours at the swimming pool, competing on the swim team and visiting with friends. Just before my senior year Dad retired from the Air Force. After two years of living in the Wichita area, I still couldn’t call Wichita “home.” So, when you ask, “Where are you from? Where is home?” I must pause and think. I’m from everywhere; I’m from nowhere. When I think of home, I don’t think of the places I’ve lived. When I think of home, I picture Mom bustling in the kitchen, talking and laughing. When I think of home, I see Dad working in the yard or playing the latest tunes on the stereo. When I think of home I picture my three brothers: brothers who played with me, squabbled with me, and protected me. When I think of home, I recall playing games and laughing late into the night. Where is home? Home is not a place. Home is where love lives. The Thief Nancy Sturm Watching Dad care for Mom and helping him with her care is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Looking back on that difficult time, however, I realize I’ve learned an important life lesson. Dad learned to cook when he was 80. Previously, that had been Mom’s domain. She loved bustling about in the kitchen, rattling pans, stirring sauces, and creating delicious food for family and friends. But that was before the thief stole her mind. At first he stole only her vocabulary, the words not temporarily forgotten, but instead totally removed from her mind. In the beginning she hid it well. When I visited, she'd tell me about a recent shopping expedition. “We went shopping yesterday. We went to….” She paused, struggling to find the name of the store, then continued. “You know, that place we like to go.” If only the thief was satisfied with just stealing words. No, he was greedy, and stole far more. In the middle of preparing dinner, she totally forgot what she was doing and wandered around, looking confused. When demoted from cooking, Mom earned the task of setting the table. Because the thief kept stealing, it took her half an hour to count out the necessary knives, forks and spoons. Mom had always loved to cook and to entertain, but that responsibility became Dad’s, as did feeding Mom. After preparing dinner, Dad’s weather-worn hand filled the spoon with food and lifted it toward her mouth, which opened bird-like for each bite. He fed her before he ate, his own dinner growing cold. Watching him, I frequently looked away to hide my tears. My mother was alive, yet I mourned. I watched my dad aging rapidly from the constant care. He said the emotional strain was much harder than the physical. I agree. Her diminishing thinking ability soon affected her appearance. The woman who’d always been well groomed and had excellent taste in clothes had to be encouraged to bathe and wore mismatched, even clashing clothes. The earrings she’d always loved to wear disappeared, undoubtedly “put away” in a desk drawer, filing cabinet, toilet, or trash can. As her abilities lessened, I spent nearly every Saturday cooking for my parents and teaching Dad some simple recipes. Dad was the primary care giver, but I was the backup and I cared for the care giver too! Working 45-60 hours a week, then helping Mom and Dad on Saturdays was physically and emotionally draining. Totally exhausted, I went to the doctor and learned I had mono (Epstein Barr) and had antibodies to CMV, another mono-causing virus. The doctor estimated I’d had that strain of mono a year earlier. In spite of the mono, I went to my parents’ house and helped. Every week I watched Mom decline and Dad carry new burdens. Mom was very social and loved a good conversation. Her words were generally understandable, but they wavered and fluttered. Instead of words stringing together into an understandable sentence, they bounced around like a broken strand of pearls, no longer recognizable. I smiled and nodded at her words, not understanding anything. She seemed pleased. After a few minutes, she became distracted. She stared across the room at the pictures of the great grandchildren. Her face brightened, and she talked to them. "Hi, hi," she said as she smiled at the photographs. To her they were not pictures, they were real. She related best to babies; perhaps because they communicate without words. Soon the thief stole Mom’s ability to use her right hand, and allowed her limited use of the left. Dad then brushed her teeth, dressed her, tried to fix her hair, and even applied a little lipstick to her pursed lips. After a time, as sundown approached, the thief stole her rational thought. As the shadows of the day lengthened, she paced throughout the house, screamed in terror, or shouted curse words that had never before escaped her lips. The thief stole the woman who had been my mother and left a tantrum-throwing two-year-old in an 80 year old body. Just a few months before Mom died, she was hospitalized with pneumonia. There the thief stole one last precious ability--the ability to walk. Finally Dad was forced to place her in a nearby nursing home. Still he cared for her. Every day he visited and pushed her around the halls of her new home in her wheel chair. While they walked, he sang to her: "I love you truly." Even though she could no longer say the words, she beamed and occasionally joined in with her own version, “la la la la la.” There in the care home I heard the last words she ever uttered to Dad, “I love you.” Then the thief stole the rest of her words. Yes, the thief stole my mother long before her 82 year-old heart stopped beating. Although my mother’s losses may seem depressing, I learned much from this experience and I’m a better person because of what I learned. I learned what real love means. Love is taking the vow, “for better or worse” seriously. Love is caring for the person you love even when disease robs her of everything about her you ever loved.

**Patrick!! The underlined lines indicate the break between each haiku. Thanks! Micki**

Varying green shades Beautiful bird songs __Shatteredby passing cars__ Dancing in the sun Oblivious to the world __Are little children__ Branches sway and stretch Eager to meet the water __Just out of reach__ Reaching for the sky Aching to reach the clouds __Trees sway in the gentle breeze__ Making its way up, The new ivy climbs the trunk Of the patient tree
 * Haiku**
 * By Micki Fryhover**

**Patrick~ I would like this photo to accompany this poem. Thanks! Micki**
 * The Tree**
 * by Micki Fryhover**

Your home is the Garden of theGods— desolate, yet breathtakinglybeautiful. You stand humbly touching thebackdrop of fluffy white clouds and deepblue sky. So vibrant and alive despite the red barren land surroundingyou; raising you high into thatfluffy white cloud, thriving against great odds.

The Bluetooth: WTH? By Micki Fryhover Dear Bluetooth User, Okay. We know everyone is important and special inhis or her own way. But are you SO important that you have to walk around withthat thing protruding out of your ear? Don’t get me wrong. I totally get whythey are useful while driving a car, as it allows you to keep your hands on thewheel while you’re chatting away, just as distracted as you would be if youwere holding the phone the old fashioned way. My question is: Do you reallyneed that Bluetooth sticking out of your ear while you’re walking aroundWal-Mart? Seriously? Are you expecting a call from the President? Are yousuch a germophob you can’t reach into your own purse or pocket, and pull outyour very own personal cell phone and answer the call? Does the fate of the world depend on yourability to answer the call 4.6 seconds faster? I know! You are not coordinatedenough to walk, push the cart, AND hold the phone to your ear at the same time!It //is// a rather complicated procedure,so I guess I can see why the hands-free approach would be needed. Maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe you just think itmakes you look super cool. Maybe you just like messing with people. You knowwho you are. You’re the hot guy or beautiful girl with the long, flowing hairthat covers your perfect ears waiting to prey on the unsuspecting average Joeor Jane. You briefly make eye contact with us as you flash a friendly smile. Youlook like you might even be open to an actual exchange of words. Wow. Todaymight be our lucky day! As we peruse the shelves looking for a bottle ofHidden Valley Ranch dressing, you nonchalantly reach around our elbow, grabbingyour own bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch dressing off the shelf. You might even gently brush up against us. Youstartle us out of our stupor as you say something like “what are you doingtonight?” as you gracefully remove your selection from the shelf before us. Aswe turn toward the intoxicating sound of your voice and formulate a response,you toss your head back, or tuck your hair behind your ear, revealing yourblasted Bluetooth. You continue the conversation; completely oblivious to havocyou’ve just created. We, on the other hand, try desperately to prevent theflushing heat from reaching our cheeks as we look around praying no one elsewitnessed our near snafu. I’m not bitter or jealous. I’m just simply annoyed—annoyedby the whole Bluetooth craze. There is, however, one place I can think of wherethe kind of hands-free application the Bluetooth provides would truly come inhandy. I’m not referring to the kitchen, where you can yap away while preppingdinner or baking a yummy batch of chocolate chip cookies. I’m talking about aplace where hands-free talking is not only preferred, but rather necessary. No,come to think of it, it is the last place I would want you to be while having atelephone conversation with me. No, come to think of it, I really prefer not tohave my conversation drowned out by the sound of a flushing toilet—unless, ofcourse, your Bluetooth happens to be going along for the ride….

Sincerely Yours, I.M.Irritated, President Anti-BlutoothAssociation

//D. Pickens// There’s not much I’d endure To retrieve My laptop, I’d not even grieve.
 * Suffer to Go **

My car keys, A hairbrush, A toothbrush or two, I’d not dare traverse The mildest loo.

Now a child A pet An engagement ring, I can see Enduring Most anything.

Down the darkest hole Through the foulest stench I’d bear, most anything To show How much I care.

I would boldly go My love But to show, The whole world Just to see, How much I do care And what you mean to me.

**My Literate Self** **By Monica Swift** As I write my lesson plans, I often wonder how I learned to develop an essay or how I learned grammar. Now as I look back at my path to literacy I see that an amalgamation of events and habits led to my ability to read. Growing up my younger sister and I always had a shelf of books just for Angie and me. I don’t remember a time when I could not grab a book and know that Mama would read to me. However, every night something magical happened. Mama would read bedtime stories from one of two oversized books: //A Treasury of FairyTales// and //The Greatest Stories of the Bible//. (Since the purpose of this essay is to dwell on my actual literacy rather than cultural literacy, I will not dive into the contrasting messages these two books sent.) The bedtime readings lasted just minutes for my younger sister who would run away with the sandman, but I would stay awake for every word. I followed Mama’s finger as she tracked each word, until one day I began to recognize those words in other places. I began to search out familiar words, whether they were on billboard signs or #|cereal boxes. It became an obsession. I couldn’t stop myself; if I knew the word, it must be read. When I was six, Mama heard somewhere that “good readers are born in the library” (she also heard that exceptional students study music and forced Angie and me into #|piano lessons, but I digress). So, in an attempt to“advantage” her offspring, she took us to the Goddard Public Library every other Saturday, since we could check out books two weeks at a time, and told us to select books that we would actually read. I have to say access to the library opened up a world beyond my bookshelf at home (which included a lot of horse stories thanks to my sister’s input on what “we” wanted to read). In second grade, I remember Mrs. Odom reading us //Little House in the Big Woods// and //Little House on the Prairie//. Of course we all watched the weekly program on TV, so there was a built-in interest before Mrs. Odom even began reading. Still, I asked for the books for my birthday and tried to read them for myself. By fourth grade, I remember discovering mysteries; heck I had loved Scooby Doo, so Nancy Drew was a natural #|step, and by seventh grade I was reading Agatha Christie. I experimented with words, however, my mispronounciations required correction. In fact, some of my attempts at new words were so immensely slaughtered that I received blank looks from my teacher when I tried to incoporate the words in my everyday speech. In Junior High I met Amy, who explained that “smart” people read the classics and nonfiction, so I read //Gone with the Wind// and a story about the sinking of the Titanic. The more I read the more I pushed myself to read even more difficult books. The women in my family modeled reading. Mama read voraciously; I now know it was junk reading, but they were books all the same. Grandma, on the other hand, rarely varied her book of choice, //The Holy Bible,// and could often be found deeply engrossed in it. These examples of good reading habits encouraged me to discover what the words on the pages really meant. OK, so the desire was fostered, but //how// did I learn to read? Well, there was //Sesame Street// and //The Electric Company//, but my TV watching was so limited (thanks again to Mama hearing somewhere that too much TV watching would "make us dumb") that I didn’t get to see as much of those programs as I wanted. In first grade we started working with letters and listening to guided readers on huge earphone sets. I remember struggling with differentiating my letters. I knew how to verbally spell words like “dinosaur,” but when I wrote them, they came out “pinosaur.” Mrs.Click, my first grade teacher, had a couple of us pulled out and worked with in another room. I never mentioned it to my folks, because I was embarrassed about being singled out. Now I realize that my folks would have been asked to sanction this extra help and probably even advocated for it. By the time I was in second grade, my teacher was grouping me with the stronger readers in the class, and I found that the flipping of p’s, b’s, and d’s went away if I was well rested and slowed down my writing. I liked being with the strong students – people can say what they want about young students not being aware of their weaknesses, but kids know. Oddly enough, I was not bothered about being clumped with the average math students. Early in life I associated the “bad” students with being poor. In suburban school the //haves// and the //have nots// are obvious. Now, as a teacher, I realize that is not always the case. Good parenting is key and even the most economically deprived mother (or father) can raise strong readers. I also noticed that when the parents are absent the teacher can be a surrogate, and that gives me hope for the literacy of my students. I truly appreciate the opportunities my mother made possible for my literacy, and I can only hope that I will be just as good a model for my own children and my students.

The cavemen had their art, the Native Americans had their smoke signals, and I had handwritten notes, so why does teen texting grate on me? It is just an electronic note right, a new improved means of communication? I mean who really needs to capitalize “I” – it is presumptuous anyway. As for grammar, well, we //talk good// most of the time, so really there is no need to slow down and fix a message. “Love your baby” and “Love, your baby” are the exact same words minus the unnecessary key stroke which only slows the texter down. How can anyone be confused by three little words? My friends know what I mean, and isn’t communication supposed to be with friends and not //unfriended// people, seriously who wants to chat with people who judge you for your writing instead of your ideas, aren’t ideas the most important thing – really you can’t get confused by poor grammar, now can you? After careful thought, I can see how texting would… be grate? Be great? Ah, forget it, B GR8. I can’t totally trash teen texting and leave out the equally aggravating counterpart, adult emailing. My school mailbox is filled every morning with emails brimming with news, reminders, and misspellings. Misspelling, it’s something we all do; however, it is inexcusable when it happens in an email. In fact, I would hazard to say misspelling is the nemesis of good electronic communication. The most frustrating thing is that a defense exists to protect emails against such travesties. It’s a button called “Check Spelling” cloaked in red and sitting on the right side of the email box, but does anyone heed its offer of help? It would appear not. Most of the time email spelling is so skewed that one has to pool the powers of context cluing to save the message from certain and impending doom. I am sure that many a well-intended message has been deemed meaningless after a myriad of villainous typos and misspellings have laid waste to them. It starts with one, let that one be you, use the spell check.
 * Communication 2Day**
 * By Monica Swift**

**“In Search of….”**
 * by Monica Swift**

“There’s a lid for every pot, even the cracked pots,” Grandma said. I remember asking, “But how will //I// know when I have found my lid?” The best advice I ever received came in the form of her answer. I was 21 years old and drowning in a sea of bad dates. I had just stopped in to bring Grandma her prescription when Grandpa asked the dreaded question. “Do you ever plan to marry?” It was not a wholly unexpected question, months earlier Grandma had told me that when I announced my intent to teach, Grandpa had declared I would become an old maid. I was beginning to fear that he was right, because I had yet to succeed in accurately reading men. This is why I turned to Grandma, married for over 60 years, she had wisdom in this area. “But how will //I// know when I have found my lid?” “He will want to be around you,” she said. I remember thinking “//that’s// an answer?” Still I sagely let her keep talking. “Oh you’ll know. The interested ones will make up excuses to talk with you, to hang around you, just watch for it.” Then she added, “Oh and don’t rule out the quiet ones either.” Since Grandpa was practically a mute old farm boy, I took her at her word on that, too. Heeding her advice was a challenge. I wanted the ones //I// wanted and found myself hanging around those men almost willing them to show interest; however, by graduate school I was getting better at detecting men who were attracted to me. In fact, by paying better attention to those around me I met an “Almost Mr. Right” during my second year of graduate school. Happily I found that I did not always have to listen to his stories, because he wanted to know about me! To this day I am still single, but by using Grandma’s advice and only dating the men who like me (and not the other way around), I have had fewer heartbreaks and sweeter memories.

** “What’s Left Behind” ** ** by Monica Swift **

Leaving things behind becomes personal as one enters the teaching profession. Fears must be “gone after’” and squelched. Entertaining becomes paramount, as evidenced by the singing, the dancing, the drawing, and even the rapping I have showcased for my students. The students know nothing of my shyness and my insecurity, because engaging them is my sole focus. My fears and inhibitions are forced out of my classroom—that is until my plan time when the insecurity creeps back. It is at those times, I realize just how much of myself I leave behind in order to do my job and at times live my life.

Who is the real me? Outside of school I am not the life-of-the-party, I am reserved and quiet; however, when I am in my classroom I am “on,” in 90 minute increments. It is really no wonder that I am exhausted by day’s end. Occasionally my students hear from someone (usually one of their parents and former classmate of mine) that I was neither out-going nor popular in high school and college and they are amazed. They see me as the woman on the stage and they believe that is all there is to her—No back story. No personal life—just teacher. Being someone I am not, leaving behind who I am, and pulling out all the energy I have to perpetuate the façade is at times just too much. I love teaching, but it is a lot like being a saleswoman without the joys of the bonus check.

Functioning in a schizophrenic-like life-style is a challenge. My sister teases me about this quick change, for she has witnessed it when we have been out gallivanting around Wichita and one of my students notices me. With just a quick, “Hey, Swift!” called my way I become another person. I cease to be //Monica// or //Buddy,// and I become Miss Swift, High School Language Arts Teacher. I assume the role of inquisitor asking about his new job, his love life, or anything else I can remember specifically about him. I never expect the students to ask about me and they never disappoint. I do not intend to paint myself as a selfless creature, I do love to talk and like most I am more than pleased to discuss myself, but that is a topic I reserve for my friends. Even my co-workers get the “fun” stories, the stories involving the misadventures of my dogs or something humorous I heard on the radio. I do not share of myself, because I truly believe someone would have to love me in order to be interested in my story – and trust me the people I work with do not love me.

Though the lifestyle sounds false, I am good at it. I grew up as a pastor’s daughter, meaning that small talk and a welcoming smile were always expected. I have honed this skill and frankly I am a master. Boyfriends’ parents always adore me and I rarely have to say a word beyond complimenting their son. This skill – this leave //you// at the door motto, works for every occasion. The downside to this life is that I only spend about eight hours a day being Monica.

**“Reality”** **by Monica Swift** The summer school students grudgingly exited the bright yellow bus. “Do they really think this is going to be fun?” Tia asked aloud to no one in particular. “Any time away from that hot portable is fine with me,” one of the boys remarked as the young female teacher held up her clipboard to signal the nine juniors standing outside of the bus. The teens immediately started tapping on their cell phones and setting their iPods in silent protest. Upon completing a quick head count, the male teacher realized that two boys were hanging back on the bus. Even though the male teacher who was only about ten years older than his students, he drew stares when he tried to lure the rebels off the bus in a “cool” manner. “Get down from this bus with your funky selves,” he said jovially. The female teacher laughed and gave her colleague an approving thumbs-up. “Oh my God,” Jenna groaned openly rolling her eyes. The teachers did not notice, or at least pretended not to notice, the apathy of their charges and proceeded to explain the purpose of the field excursion. “Today is your chance to foray into the world of reality, away from the claptrap of electronic, simulated labs. You and a partner will be testing the Arkansas River water for impurities. This will give you a chance to embrace real science, in the real world, with real people.” “Real fun,” Tia remarked giving her Smart phone a quick glance. “Come get a kit for you and your partner,” the female teacher invited as the male teacher held up a kit in an attempt to entice the students. When the group continued tapping on their cell phones and selecting songs on their iPods, the female teacher used another tactic. “Grab a kit or I will hand them out and pick your partners for you,” she threatened never losing her smile. Youthful eyes looked widely up from electronic devices, and hands shot out for the kits. With kit in hand, Tia turned to the boy near her, “Hey kid, do you want to partner up?” The boy shrugged his assent. Suddenly Jenna belted out, “We’re an odd number, so I am going to work with these kids!” Tia frowned as the obnoxious girl joined their team. The male teacher began yammering on about this being their summer lab score and saying something about the percentage it would be of the overall grade, but his words were drowned out by R&B music seeping from the students’ MP3 players. Finally they were released to study the river. As they slowly descended the bank, they noticed how low the water table was. “Seriously?” Jenna shrieked as the boy’s shoe was sucked into the mire. Tia leaped back to protect her banana yellow flip-flops and sparkly toe polish from the unforgiving mud. “Just get right in there!” the male teacher directed from the walking trail above. Jenna spun round to exit the river when she saw it. Her scream rang out across the river. Everyone froze because there, sticking out of the bank, was an arm. “It’s fake,” the boy declared as the teachers began to make a mad scramble down the embankment. Tia leaned in to study the arm and screamed out, “Oh no it’s not!” and ran up the hill past the teachers who were mid-descent. A boy from another team drew closer. “It could be a bum. Look at his dirty nails,” he observed. “Get away from that biological material!” The female teacher warned, “It could be diseased.” Upon hearing this the teens moved as one entity and stepped back. The adults confirmed that it was indeed a human arm and wanted to call 911. The male teacher grabbed Tia’s phone causing her to immediately begin complaining about wanting to get the footage posted on her Facebook page. Others were quick to comfort her with the news that they had already posted it; they even informed her that one of the boys had made a little video and put it on YouTube. The male teacher moved away to report the arm without fighting the students’ verbal disruption. Within 20 minutes a police team arrived. The young cop squatted down to check out the arm. Jenna signed as she studied the man. “Finally, something worth looking at,” she blurted in her habitually unfiltered way. The students reacted to her statement with laughs and crude remarks before falling suddenly silent. The forensics team had arrived. The sole woman on the team turned toward the police officer when he asked, “Do you think the body has been here since Riverfest?” She looked back at the arm, “I don’t think so, the victim is wearing a long-sleeved black shirt.” Before much more could be said, the older police officer ordered the teachers to back the students up, and then asked for the names of the arm’s finders. The students began madly working their phones as the man’s entire body was extracted from the bank. The female teacher gasped, “I know him!” Everyone’s attention shifted to her, so she continued, “He was in the celebrations section of //The Eagle// on Sunday!” One of the boys began typing on his Smart phone and looked up an electronic copy of Sunday’s //Eagle//. As the group surveyed the dead man’s smiling engagement photo, the boy remarked, “Well, he isn’t celebrating anymore.” The students laughed despite the fact that the female teacher was chiding them about their insensitivity. The police looked over at the students with disgust, prompting their teachers to move them out of the river bed and load them onto the bus. As she stepped up through the retractable door, Tia remarked, “This is the best day of summer school!” No one heard, because everyone was mid-post updating his or her Facebook account.

Poetry with accompanying photo which I can't get to upload to this site...I'll try email to Patrick. Chinese Egret image captured June 17, 2011 @ []

Little Man by Meg Rice

Slender little man

Proudly peers through alert gold spectacles,

Stands erect in long white tuxedo,

Wings elegantly folded behind his back.

Colors coordinate above and below,

Beak and feet fluoresce with a yellow-orange glow.

Long clawed toes grip, then slip,

Then slide down green mossy spillway ramp.

Turbulence froths ‘round long black stockings

To conceal his brightly shod feet.

Smiling golden beak awaits

Glinting fish, to catch and eat.

Now, a well fed little man

Wearily blinks through drowsier eyes,

Bends low at knobby knees, leans forward.

Outstretched wings thrust down, take flight.

Launching streaks of orange, before and aft.

He seeks river’s shady shore to nap.

Memorial to a Future War By Meg Rice

Settling on a black wrought-iron bench At Riverside Memorial Garden, My gaze falls upon an undulating concrete wall. It surrounds a crisply curbed sidewalk that Partially encircles a round, unplanted patch of dirt.

Void of brass plaques, carved in soldiers’ names and dates, Unadorned gray cement walls stand silently. Waiting. I consider the reason for this vacant space. Could it be a work in progress, meant to memorialize a past war? Could it anticipate memorializing a current bloody war?

I contemplate the insanity; Of empty space, in this place, Reserved and preserved in concrete, Awaiting the end of the next new war, Finally, to assign it a name and meaning.

I weep at the futility Of empty space, Reserved for the next, new war.

Pat, please use font: Blue Highway Linocut for the Troll in the Hole. If I can get Rachel's digital image of the troll from her camera, we can add that.


 * Troll in the Hole** by Meg Rice

“Lonely troll Deep in the hole, Why did they put you there?”

Upturned face, Both hands implore, “Help me escape this place!

“Day and night The people come, They gawk and stare at me.

‘’ ‘Tween metal bars Aimed cameras: click; Pictures their friends will see.

“You come down here, I’ll go up there, To ever more be free.

“I promise you, I shan’t go far, I’ll come back to visit thee.”

“Lonely troll Deep in the hole, I fear I will let you be.”

“In Defense of Junk Mail” by Michele Guiol

I hate going to my mailbox and not finding any mail. I check it daily. I like to check it. Some people avoid checking their mail because they are afraid to find bills or other pieces of “bad” news. Not me. I want whatever is in there. Chances are, if it is a bill, I won’t open it until bill-paying day. But, I like the idea of picking the mail up out of the box anyway.

My mailbox is attached to my house, on my porch. So it’s not like I have to walk anywhere to retrieve it. I can just crack open my front door, and slip my hand into the shiny red box. I can even manage to do this while I am nude - or, if it’s just too hot, or too cold, or too whatever.

I especially like getting magazines. I like the idea of having something of substantial size in my mailbox. Even if that magazine is something I never ordered – I still delight in looking it over. I’ve been receiving Baby Talk magazine for about six months now, and my kids are all grown. Of course, along with the Baby Talk magazine, I often get mailers about Pampers, or some other baby product. Weird. Does this bother me? No. I dig getting mail. I love catalogs too. Again, even if I will never buy anything from the catalog – like Fingerhut, for example, I always look through it anyway. I recycle paper, so I don’t even feel bad about paper waste. And, it’s not like I hoard mail or magazines or anything like that. I’m not that strange.

This brings me to my point about “junk" mail. Most people hate it. Some go as far as packaging the ‘junk” mail and returning it to its original sender. Not me. I devour my junk mail. I relish and delight in all of the colorful envelopes and advertisements and catalogs that show up in my mailbox. In fact, I can’t wait to open them. Mail, even junk mail, makes me feel important, significant, viable, noticed, alive – hey, my name’s on it! Even if it is computer generated—I still like seeing my name on a piece of mail, regardless the kind. Now, I do get a bit disappointed if my junk mail is addressed simply “resident,” but after all… mail is mail. I’ll take it.

I could go on and on about the fun and nifty ways junk mail can be used. Sometimes free mailing labels will arrive. These fluffy packages often come from obscure groups like "The Tree Huggers Society" or some other noble organization hoping for a donation. Even if the label are misspelled or a bit hokey, they still serve their purpose. And what about junk mail as scrap paper? It’s great when you are in a pinch. Junk mail also makes for handy bookmarks and coasters. It’s also perfect for wrapping up a stale piece of gum.

So, I must admit that I do feel a bit “empty” when I go to my mailbox and find nothing there. I feel a little blue. I begin to doubt my validation as a consumer, or even as a living, breathing member of the human race. Junk mail, or any kind of mail, lifts me up for a moment and helps me confirm that my trip, or “reach,” to the mailbox was not in vain. So, from one who truly appreciated the benefits of junk mail, I say- bring it on!

“Again” by MIchele Guiol

Again, She swore she’d never return

Toxic fumes of bitterness Burned her nostrils

Every gut-twisting sob Resounded Left unabated

She waded thru the mire Sorrow and suffering Glued to her feet Like black tar

Why had she come To this birthplace of despair Unholy and unnerving

She found no relief No quench of thirst In this wasteland Of regret and remorse

She walked with shades Thru the cobwebbed corridors Listened to the reverberating wails Echoes of those who came before Of those who were to follow

Maybe one day She would hear the call And not come

Again, Maybe not

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“In Search of Nirvana” by Michele Guiol

What do you know? Here I am, almost 50 and I still haven’t arrived at my literacy nirvana, not yet anyway. Not even after completing three college degrees. Not even after teaching English to high school students. Not even after a lifetime of hungrily reading anything I could get my hands on. I don’t think I, or anyone else who loves literature, will ever be able to reach their literary nirvana. It simply isn’t possible. There are too many things to learn and so many books to read, and unfortunately, a limited life span in which to do it all.

Through books I learned to ask questions, to be skeptical, to be aware, to be cautious. I learned about love and sex. I discovered that no matter what the setting, genre, or age of the characters, sex and love always follow the same basic formula. I learned to see the world through others' eyes, other places (real or imagined), and other viewpoints (even those I vehemently opposed). Through literature, I learned to laugh, to sharpen my own wit, and to tell amusing anecdotes. Being literate brought me closer to God, to others, but most importantly, to myself.

Sometimes I cursed the books. Like a frenzied dieter or an addict, I made a solemn promise to put them away – for now, for a time, forever. And then my fingers would itch, my heart would race, and my head would ache for more words.

Like Eve and Persephone, I had unleashed, savored, and sampled the food of knowledge - of words. Once tasted, the flavor cannot be forgotten. And this often was a good thing, or a great thing, or sometimes simply a getaway. But on occasions, literacy became a source of sadness, disappointment, and misery. It seemed the more I read, the more I learned, the more questions I asked – well, quite frankly, the more disillusioned and unsettled I became. I’d hate myself for questioning the existence of God, the way of the world, and the essence of the human condition.

Ignorance truly is bliss. At times I wish I was a different person, one who wasn’t so curious and greedy for words and knowledge. Life would be easier if I had no desire to read. I could sleep blissfully each night without having to artificially shut down my brain. Maybe I would find nirvana that way. But, dammit, I am the girl who trembles when she goes into a bookstore, a library, or to the book department of a thrift store. I lovingly stroke the spines and covers. I pick them up, take in their fragrance, and then fan through the pages and create a soft, comforting mixture of air, sight, and smell. It is then I understand why I am compelled to seek.

“Doors” By Michele Guiol

There had been many doors in her life; some swung wide open, others were slammed in her face. Some doors were glass—breakable, others were wood—immobile. She didn’t know why, but today she was thinking about doors and… her father. But why equate the two? After all, what is a door? It is a solid piece of glass, metal, or wood, hanging on inanimate and cold hinges. Her father was warm, breathing, and alive—nothing like a door.

There had been many doors in her life, but it was the solid oak bedroom door, slightly marred and pawed on by the pet dog, that was the one she remembered the most. That door was to become a catalyst for her new life, her life without her father ---oh, he was still there, physically anyway, but he was not the same man she had known growing up.

Through the years, her father had always been her hero. He was big, handsome, and larger than the sky. She lived for her father, anxiously waiting for him to return home from work. She drew pictures of him and proudly presented them to him. He covered his office walls with drawings, creating childish wallpaper. Big heads and stick figure bodies stared out in awkward poses and angled directions. It was amusing to see the progression of drawings plastered on the walls. They began as scribbles, turned into figures that vaguely resembled a human, and eventually graduated to likenesses of authentic looking people. The pictures evolved and progressed, much like the drawings of the evolution of monkey into man. But in every drawing there was the image of a little girl holding her father’s hand.

She remembered, once when she was very young, her father had gone away on a business trip. The little girl’s heart craved his return. She’d look out the window and imagined her father looking at the very same sky. This gave her some comfort. That, and the photograph. She would take out the well-loved photo that she kept by her bedside and look at it nightly. It was the one taken shortly after her father’s arrival to the United States. In it, he was standing in front of the Palace of Fine Arts in Golden Gate Park. The photo showed a young man, fresh-faced, and hopeful. He was smiling a silly grin that looked like it had been planted on his face, just for her. She didn’t know what it was exactly about this photograph that moved her so. Maybe it was because it was taken before she was born, when her father filled with possibilities for a bright future in America. Maybe she just needed to care for the picture that was wrinkled and bent. Its fragile nature reminded her of her own fragility, especially when her father was away. Whatever it was, she looked at the photo nightly and prayed for her father’s safe return.

She recalled the lazy Sunday drives. She would eagerly look forward to those drives. There was no particular destiny in mind, but Father would pack up the family into the station wagon and off they would go. They would listen for the road that beckoned the loudest and follow it, just to hear the sound of life, in the car, on a Sunday, with the family in tow. She would sit in the backseat with her sister, while Mom and Dad were upfront. Lost in her thoughts, she watched the trees go by and glimpsed the reflections of the lingering shadows that stayed behind. In that car she felt warm and safe.

She thought about the yearly trips to Disneyland, Marine World, and Knott’s Berry Farm—all of the amusement parks along the California coast. She looked forward to the motel rooms almost as much as the parks themselves. There was something fresh and exciting about the idea of sleeping in a big bed, watching TV, using the available mini amenities, and not ever having to clean up after herself. The air conditioners were a welcome treat, unlike the relentless heat of her home where there was no air conditioning. She would sit in front of metal box and feel the air whisper across her face until she couldn’t stand it anymore. But the best treat of all was the swimming pool. She loved the novelty of the pool and the sounds of splashing and laughter created by strangers from all over the world.

She looked through more pictures that day. That day when the doors were all she could think about. The discolored photographs resuscitated her memories; her awkward and lanky body—always too tall, gangly—like a newborn colt unsure of its next step. Some pictures showed her with long brown hair tied in pigtails to cover up her too-large ears. She found the photo of herself in the purple bell-bottom pants with the large velvet pockets (that she’d have to have, lest she die), and who was beside her in most of the photographs? Her father, her one and only.

And so, she let herself recall the doors. When she remembered her bedroom door she felt awash with glowing love. The memory felt like a plush baby blanket, so sweet and soft to the touch. Her father would get up very early each morning for work. It was so early that the sun wasn’t even shining and the birds had yet to sing. Sometimes she could hear the advancing train whistle blowing in the distance and she’d sink down into her bed to absorb the soothing sound. She loved the sound of the train, it gave her goosebumps. And, she loved the mornings. When her dad woke up those early mornings, she feigned as though she was asleep. She woke up on those mornings with her father, and he didn’t even know it. Her father, so very quietly, went to her bedroom door and gently shut it, to protect her from the noise as he readied himself for work. She couldn’t describe why exactly—but that was her favorite, and most vivid, memory of her father—the early mornings and the gentle click of the door. After she heard the click of the door she would fall back into a deep, undisturbed sleep—warm, safe, and cocooned in love. Her father was off to work. He didn’t want to disturb his daughter so he softly clicked the door shut in the mornings as not to disturb her. It was such a small gesture, but one that lingers in her memory still.

So the girl with the long brown hair continued to grow. She became less awkward, even pretty. Her dad remained her hero. She would walk arm in arm with him every chance she could get. People would sometimes stare; they seemed to wonder why this couple was so special. She didn’t care if people stared, nor did her father. And even though there was a new town, a new house, a new bedroom door, he always came to the door and shut it with a gentle click.

She became a young woman with boyfriends, a car, and a social life that kept her spinning. She stopped holding her father’s hand when they walked through the mall. She stopped drawing pictures for her father and put away the cracked photographs. She grew into young adulthood. Still, every morning, despite her departure from childhood, her father would still shut the bedroom door. Only then, she didn’t hear the soft click; she slept right through it, too tired, too hung over, too exhausted from the night before.

The girl went from moving out, to moving in with her boyfriend, to getting pregnant, married, and divorced. She went in, out, up, and down. Her life was a crazy explosion of confusion and commotion. Still her father was there, yet life was somehow different. There grew a heavy air of discomfort that floated between them, through them, and around them. Pleasantries were exchanged when they’d see each other or talk on the phone. If her father answered the phone when she was on the line, he’d always remark, “Let me get Mom for you.”

One day she moved back into the house where her mom and dad lived. And there she began to feel safe, warm, and loved all over again. Even though the air felt different, like a moment of hanging fire, she accepted it as a fact of life, a given—she couldn’t be Daddy’s girl forever.

One morning she woke up especially early, and it was on that morning, in the bedroom with the scratched door, that it happened—the day that it all changed. It was the morning when all things were unequivocally, unmistakably, and permanently altered. She heard her father getting up to ready himself for work. She had that feeling again, the one she remembered having as a little girl. She became that awkward girl with the big ears, waiting for her daddy to shut the door. So she melted into her bed and made herself very small in preparation for the door to make its gentle clicking sound. But on that morning, he walked past her room and didn’t shut the door. All she could do was cry. It was a melancholy cry that resonated with the sound of mourning. Something had died. The door, the Goddamn door, stayed open, and in that instant, she knew that her father would never shut it again.

Thus her new life had begun. It was fine, and she was fine, and at times, even good. The girl moved out again, got remarried, and had more children. And her father was fine, and occasionally good. But he began to lose his hair, and what was left turned white. He gained weight, and seemed shorter. His hearing started to fail and he developed a strange limp. Sometimes his arm would hang lifelessly at his side like a lazy appendage. He was usually so exhausted from a day’s work that he would fall asleep on the couch as soon as he got home. Her father stopped golfing, and dancing, and laughing. His eyes became vacant, and often his mouth would hang open as if he were waiting for words to drop into it. She wondered where her father had gone. Where was the man in the picture in front of the Palace of the Fine Arts? Where was the giant with the hearty laugh and big rough hands? Where had the infallible, all knowing figure gone?

The girl was baffled as to who her father had become, why he had aged so much, and so quickly. She worried about her father, who now seemed a frail whisper of who he once was. One day the answer to the puzzle was finally revealed. The answer, strangely enough, lie behind a door. Yet another door in her life. This door had Dr. Welbacher written in important letters on it. And behind the imposing door the doctor spoke two words—Parkinson’s Disease.

It was then she knew he would never be the same-- nor, would she. And the doors that she once loved would remain forever silent.

**This I Believe** by Brett Spencer

I believe in magic. . . . The unseen The unheard The unimaginable

I believe in love. . . With it we can do anything Sustain anything Be anyone Feel Like Nothing Else Matters

I believe in family. . . Our trophy of love Our support. If everything else falls away, We still have Everything.

I believe in dreams. . . They give us a direction And it is UP, They help us Shape our lives

I believe in art. . Images Words Music Outward expressions Of our insides

I believe in knowledge. . . Without it We are Lost And gambling with the Unknown

I believe in strength. . . Inner And Outer, The Inside Is what really Matters

I believe in tears. . . They shed our pain Leaving us Refreshed Like a shower On the inside

I believe in laughter. . . Loud and uncontrollable Releasing And sharing Our Incredible Joy

I believe in integrity. . . With it comes a Bouquet of Goodness

I believe in the sun. . . It has the power to sooth our minds Calm our spirits Warm our hearts

Permanent Separation

By Brett Lynn Spencer

I hate you,

Supreme hate

Everywhere I look,

You are THERE

Inside,

Outside,

MY

Kitchen,

Living Room,

Laundry Room,

Bathtub,

Bed

I’ve had it

I’m done

I am moving out

This house is yours

This is IT

Don’t

Attempt

to

Follow

Me

This

Relationship

Is

Over

Killing

You hasn’t succeeded

So I am

Leaving

Good-bye

You

Miniscule-Minded

Small-Bodied

Beady-Eyed

ANTS

Summer Nights

By

Brett Lynn Spencer

A Back Porch

Heat

Radiating from the sun

Escaping the grill

Eluding all else

Oranges

Roasting with fresh garlic

Intricate flavors

Fusing together

Becoming one

Steak

Pink,

Juicy,

Tender

Grilling with lust

Laughter

Resonating

Two souls

Crashing together

Memories

Fresh,

Alive,

Dancing

Anticipating the night

Haiku

By Brett Lynn Spencer

Whispers of grass

Roasting graciously

In the pelting sun

They search lightly

For a worm, perhaps

A pair of birds

___

They dance in the midst

Of a sprinkler

Coral Blossoms

My Daddy

By Brett Lynn Spencer

Some of the best advice I’ve ever heard came from my daddy. I don’t call him this anymore, but I am feeling sentimental today. My mind is taking me back to when I lived in our house at the Marion County Lake, when I was the child, innocently finding my way in life.

I’ve never spent a lot of time with him. When I was young, he was always working. He labored as a carpenter and remodeled people’s homes. Daddy was either at work, or out in his shop. His workplace was beside our house, and it was always loud. Saws were buzzing, and other “machines,” I didn’t really know what they were. I can still remember the smell of the sawdust that was piled heavily on the floor, and the feel of walking through it with my flip flops, my toes delighting in the softness. I didn’t really stay long out there though, as it wasn’t a place for kids.

People would ask him to build things, and he would just figure out a way. We weren’t in the age of computers, so I am guessing he read books from the library, or just went through “trial and error.” I remember that a man wanted him to build a spiral staircase for his home. This was a huge project. One day I saw him softening the wood by putting it in our gutters, and filling them up with water. After soaking, he could complete the task of bending it to make the curved railing. I was amazed at this process.

Resources were slim, and living at the lake, we were far from city life. Therefore, when things broke, Daddy would just figure out a way to fix them. One time our dryer wasn’t working. He made a new part for the dryer, somehow, by cutting out part of a plastic milk carton. How in the world did this work? No idea, but it did. When my first car, a rusty 1977 Toyota Celica, broke down he would always fix it. Over time, I had an accumulation of nuts, bolts, and many other “parts” that were leftover. Daddy always told me to keep them, just in case for some reason we would need them later. I was a little nervous driving that car.

As a child I really loved fishing. Why, you may ask. It wasn’t because of the worms, ewwwww! As for the fish, they were slimy and smelled gross enough NOT to eat. I did enjoy the few times that I was lucky enough to get a tug on my line, and real in a monstrously big fish. Okay, maybe not so big, but if they were bigger than Dad’s I always found it quite amusing. I did love fishing though, because it was //time// with my dad. I’m confident he enjoyed these hours as well as he helped me get my line unsnagged from rocks and trees over, and over, and over again.

Advice? My daddy, who is now my dad, always told me “Do everything in moderation.” This advice has always made sense to me, especially in relation to money, alcohol, and working. I’ve absorbed this, I get this, I’ve practiced this. However, I’m unsettled about one part of it. Family. I don’t think that family should have been included in the “moderation” mix. I sure wish that I would have gotten to spend more of my childhood with my daddy. I love you, Dad.

**Dear Patrick, I intended for the above piece to be left justified.**

If you want the outhouse picture, it is in the "pics" section with the website it came from. Brett

** Dancing in the Rain ** By Rachel Holter

“Do not wait for the storm to pass; learn instead to dance in the rain.” This quote stood out the first time I came across it. Thinking back on my experiences of rain conjures fond memories I delight in revisiting. For my birthday I received a picture which immediately brought laughter. I am three years old and wearing a checkered button-up shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. My dad is watching me with a tolerant grin, holding his coozie of Coors Light, as the photograph captured me mid-splash. Yes, I was the little imp that thrilled in the pleasure of splashing people with puddles. What made me laugh even more was the dawning realization that in twenty-five years my delight in puddles has not dwindled. Now fast forward to a six year old version of me. Living on a ninety acre ranch certainly had perks. A child who always loved water, I would pray fervently for rain because that meant the creation of puddles. Mom being the ever-wise figure she is, sent me to play in rubber boots. Nothing else. I would splash water, squish goo, and make mud pies to my heart’s content, then return home to find mom waiting, bright green hose in hand. It was less fuss than attempting to peel muddy articles of clothing from a squirming child. Those were this child’s glorious days of summer. Once again, travel through time to Kansas and freshman year of high school. I’m in the theater portable and our teacher is, for whatever reason, lacking a lesson for the rainy spring day. Maybe she had senioritis (which we as freshmen didn’t fully comprehend quite yet) or maybe she just needed a break at the end of the day. A group decided to mess around with a basketball in the gym, so we headed that way. My friend and I were quickly making our way through warm, refreshing rain when I noticed the puddle lying directly in our path. As I’m sure you can probably guess by now, that mischievous smile flitted across my face as I took a running leap at the puddle. My friend glared and classmates froze in surprise, locked in place a split second before an all-out war of splashing, pushing, and leaping ensued. Finally reaching the gym left us breathless from laughter and completely soaked. Travel through time once more, arriving on a warm summer 4th of July in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. James and I drove to Rio Rancho’s ridge and watched the fireworks from the back my Explorer’s cargo area. It was a perfect night of explosive pyrotechnics and cuddling under the vast New Mexico sky. As we drove back to Albuquerque and home, a melancholy arrived with rain that pattered my windshield. I would leave the following day to spend a few weeks in Germany; this being the first time we were unable to see each other since the budding of our new love and relationship. We said goodbye from the protection of my car, he stepped out, and began to walk slowly to his vehicle. Halfway there he abruptly turned, jogged to the driver’s side, and opened my door. His hand extended as he asked, “May I have this dance?” And so we did in the middle of the street, rain slowly soaking our hair and clothing, and tears mixing with rain at the beauty of such a night. I realize now the amazing experiences I’ve had in the rain. I have played, explored, built friendships, and strengthened love in rain’s liquid embrace. Had I waited for the storm to pass, these fond memories would have never developed and I’d look back at those times remembering boredom and anticipation of rain’s end. Thankfully I learned the joys of dancing in the rain, and my six year old self emerges to once again pray for rain.

** Take Me Out to the Ball Game **
 * Please include this photo with Dancing in the Rain.

By Rachel Holter

Writing in Coach Holter’s classroom is not always fun and games, but the motto still remains, “There’s no crying in baseball!” As my team comes in on day one of practice, each and every one of them has a turn to bat. Some immediately get “the look.” If you’ve ever coached you know what look I’m talking about: that moment when a player thinks, “//But I’ve never batted before. I’ve seen people bat, but I’ve never tried. I can’t do this!”// Coach smiles, nods, and assures each and every player that they most certainly can. They step up to the plate, the bat smooth and slippery under their clammy palms, their hearts pounding in their ears so loud that the pitcher must be able to hear it. As the ball comes whizzing towards them, they close their eyes, swing with all their might, and they’re off!

Every player makes it to first base in this kindergarten classroom, also known as the Scribble Writing Base. The first base coach is right there, whispering encouragements that scribble writing is not just scribbles; it is actual writing that just needs a little interpretation! Before the players can move on to second base, they have to keep a watchful eye on the pitcher, who is just waiting for them to take a foot off base in the wrong direction. That pitcher is watching for players who scribble write from left to right, and continue their “sentence” on the next line on the left hand side. If they fail to do so, they just might find themselves outta there! First base is all about the convention of writing, and getting your swing perfected.

Before the players know it, they hear the crack of the bat kissing the ball, and they are off to second base! Now it is time for players to really up their game by putting any letters and symbols they might know in place of the scribbles. As each week at practice brings forth another letter in their bat bag, they will be able to use a broad variety of letters in their run. Pretty soon players hear that crack of the ball, watch it soar over their heads into outfield, and take off for the next base.

Whew! The players make it to third with a head first slide. As the players dust off the now-brown pants, the crowd is on their feet and cheering their hearts out. At third base the player once again has support right there in the coach’s box. Now that the players have learned the sounds associated with the letters, it is their job to try and figure out the first letter of each word. The third base coach whispers advice and knowledge about the best ways to discern those sometimes tricky first sounds until the player is confident in their ability. Once again, the player hears that crack, and watch the grounder bounce its way along toward right field. The opponent on first base misses as the ball careens towards the outfield, and the players know the time has come.

With a fresh burst of speed, players sprint for home plate. Time seems to slow down as the right fielder sends the ball spiraling through the air towards the catcher. The crowd holds its breath as they realize the ball and players are going to reach home plate at the same time. With a final explosion of energy the players dive and slide head first, their fingertips just barely touching home plate, and the catcher’s mitt thumps the players between the shoulders. All eyes turn to the umpire for the final ruling, “Ssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaffffe!”

Just like that umpire stretching out the magical word, players must also stretch out the words they want to spell. In this ninth inning of the kindergarten game, players pop a piece of Big League Chew in their mouth, and then stretch it as far as it will go while saying the word they need to spell. This enables players to really hear all of the sounds involved in the word, and they are able to distinguish those sounds and place them in the correct order. This is also the stage where they have to remember to capitalize that first letter, place finger spaces between words, and plop a period at the end of the sentence.

With all of this accomplished, players strut back towards the dugout and the teammates spilling forth to offer congratulations. The crowd on the bleachers are all on their feet, stomping and roaring their approval, and sounding quite similar to a massive thunderstorm. As players take that first step back into the dugout, a glance at Coach Holter affirms a job well done. With a smile, the players look into the bleachers and spot their family cheering like a bunch of loons. What a game.

**Yummy in my Tummy**

By Rachel Holter

I grew up in the country, a product of the winding hills of Tennessee. My ninety acre playground included three ponds, large open fields, and woods. During the day I fished on the grassy bank of the murky pond, flew my rainbow striped kite in sprawling fields, or rode my dappled grey pony Sparkle along the cattle trails meandering through dense woods.

After a long, tiring day of outdoor adventures and nightly chores, I grew curious as I made my way to the house. My tummy rumbled anticipating the delights mom produced. I loved when I stepped into the kitchen from the mud room, and was greeted by the smell of sautéed peppers and onions simmering in beef gravy, though they are not what delighted me so immensely. It was the petite tender strips of venison backstrap nestled amongst the red and green peppers that caused my saliva juices to start pumping full blast. It always tasted superlative during hunting season; it was never quite the same after being buried behind the peas, waffles, Brahma beef, pheasant, and chucker residing in our freezer. Every bite of tender, succulent backstrap demanded accompaniment by a morsel of mashed potatoes and a perfectly sized rectangle of either red or green peppers.

Not everyone understands my passion for this meal. I have had friends over for dinner that refused to even sample one of my greatest pleasures in life. Sadness crept upon me at the refusal until a vital realization dawned – more for me! I literally gorge myself each and every time I partake of this meal; I feast until a wheelbarrow or John Deere front-end loader is required to assist me leaving the table.

It is not very often that I am privileged enough to enjoy this succulent dish, which might be why I fight tooth and nail for each morsel. Family members have learned to keep their hands out of the way when the spears of my fork dive for another juicy tidbit. However, I can always count on that one magical day of the year when I am guaranteed to have this manna from heaven, the yummy in my tummy. My special meal comes on March 20, the first day of spring, also known as my birthday. When given the choice of dining at my favorite restaurant or choosing a home-made meal, venison backstrap triumphs nine times out of ten. Best. Day. Ever. And now you know why.


 * Please include this photo with Yummy in my Tummy

** Reading Inspiration **

By Rachel Holter

When I was young my parents said, “Do your chores before bed. The stalls need mucked, the horses fed, then get the grime off your head.”

We’d get paid to muck the stalls, toss some hay, sweep the halls. It was work that must be done by brother and me…it wasn’t fun.

Then one day Pastor Mike proclaimed, “What are we teaching kids to do? Should we pay them to pick up poo? They should be rewarded for other things too!”

My parents thought a long while. It all made sense, their task was clear. They came back grinning from ear to ear. “//What now?//” we wondered with a smile.

My parents beamed as they said, “We’ll pay you to read books instead!” //Really?// I thought with a grin. I could do that, and did a spin.

So brother and I read our books, and wrote reports mom always took. For me, reading books became fun. Sadly, I was the only one.

My brother never saw the desire that stuck with me to read by a fire. But we learned a lesson that day: reading is important, and I saw the way.



*Please include this photo with Reading Inspiration

We Danced Friendship is often defined in unique ways. For instance, six years of living together, several road trips and other special occasions have marked the relationship between my best friend Mark and myself. Our friendship has grown to the point where it is firmly planted, undoubted, and unquestioned. What are often more difficult to classify are the friendships between those people who are separated from us via distance or the busy hasslings of everyday life. Having lived with Andy for three years and after sharing a level of our duplex with him, I did not doubt the bond between us. The doubt and the wonderings came from the hard-to-define relationship I had with Andy’s girlfriend, and future wife, Brooke. I first met Brooke the day Andy moved in with Mark, Adam, and me. A bright, pleasant, kind-hearted woman, she even had the ability to appreciate the odd sense of humor which often forms in a household of four college-aged boys. As such, a wealth of memories formed amongst the lot of us through dinners, outings, and general conversation while lounging around the house. In time, however, the course of love ran rough causing Andy and Brooke to separate. But, as is the case with true love, they eventually found their way back to one another. It was during this period of uncertainty that the lines began to blur. Perhaps it was the awkward nature of the events which transpired or possibly the natural instinct to protect your own as masculine mantras of the time dictated that caused this initial rift to form. Regardless, in my first few encounters with Brooke following their reunion, I (and I believe to some extent Mark and Adam) felt slightly apprehensive about seeing her again in this relationship with Andy knowing the affect their breakup had had on him. But, as is also the case with true love, it is not for the world to see and believe in, but for two people to have, feel, and revel in. Whether it was that uneasiness that created the general malaise I perceived in the ensuing months remains irrelevant and ultimately inconsequential. All that mattered was that something had changed. Conversation dropped to a minimum and frequently non-existent. It was sad at times, frustrating at others, but mostly awkward. Given a certain awkwardness to my social abilities as it was, I couldn’t help myself from doubting whether or not I was really friends with Brooke or if we were merely friends by association. I believe that slowly, over time, I got my answer. Whenever I attended weddings, I was typically in the company of family. My parents, brother, and sister where usually invited and for sake of ease, I went with them. Not the partying types, my parents usually left shortly into the reception; thus I became quite estranged from the dance floor over the years. I did have occasion one summer to attend a wedding of a friend without the company of my parents, instead in the company of Mark, Andy, Brooke, and Andy’s brother, Craig. Considering I usually attended wedding receptions for an hour at the longest, I was shocked when we reached the five-hour mark at this reception and were nowhere near leaving the hotel it was held in. While I ventured away from my table to talk to the bride and groom, get dinner and cake, mingle with the few guests that I knew, and grab a drink, I by-and-large stayed at the table talking with Mark and Craig. The longer we went into the night, the more the table guests ventured towards the dance floor or wandered the hallways of the hotel. As I sat, watching the dancers on the floor, I became privy to the fact that, with Craig and Mark off dancing and Andy in the restroom, Brooke and I were alone at the table albeit on opposite sides. The table was large enough and the room loud enough to negate any possibility of conversation, and though I was willing to let the silence persist, Brooke decided on a different course of action. As Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” played over the sound system, Brooke apparently felt the urge to dance. Since options were limited, she decided I would be her partner – and that I had no say in the matter. “Do you wanna dance?” she asked. “That’s okay, I don’t really dance,” I replied. “Come on, just one dance.” “I don’t think so.” And that was the end of the asking me, and the beginning of the telling me that I was going to dance. Brooke stood up, walked over to my side of the table, and grabbed my arm. “Come on, we’re gonna dance,” she said matter-of-factly. I hadn’t time to prepare a proper defense. As I listlessly rose from my chair, “What? Why?” was all I could manage to blurt out. “Because it’ll be fun,” she explained as she dragged me along. From there, I went to the lamest cliché in the male playbook. “But I can’t dance.” We were on the dance floor now, and Brooke picked out a small corner for our little showcase. As she turned to face me, she smiled. “That’s okay, I can’t dance either,” she assured me. I still felt it necessary to voice my disdain for this notion by not engaging in the dancing, so Brooke took one of my hands in hers, placed my other hand on her hip, and then set her second hand on my shoulder. There was something very unnerving and downright uncomfortable about having my hand on Brooke’s hip. It was as innocent as the sun in the summer sky, but I suppose for some people, unprovoked personal contact always evokes some initial discomfort. I had no idea what she was going to do or what we were trying to do, so I looked blankly at her for a minute. She couldn’t help laughing at me. “Just follow my lead,” she said. I sighed as we began to step, sway, and turn to the music. We bumped into several other couples (I maintain none of it was my fault), but fortunately, I never stepped on her feet. When the song ended, I looked back to our table and saw Andy sitting with Craig which filled me with some relief. I didn’t mind dancing with Brooke, but as a rule, I did have a problem dancing in general. Nevertheless, now that Andy had returned, the dance card had changed. The following day, I got on Facebook to the find a note posted on my wall: Brooke: Hey Shawn! Thanks for dancing last night, I still dont care that we bumped into at least 10 other couples. I'd do it again tonight. I chuckled to myself as I wrote my reply: Shawn: For the record, it was 12...and I still maintain that the last 6 we're on purpose (that's right, the finger is pointed squarely at you), but yes it was fun, and thanks for not taking no for an answer. I probably needed to get out there and dance a bit. Oh, and if you think you're scaring me by threatening me with more, all I got to say is bring it! I ain't scared...much. My hope was that her tongue-in-cheek reference to doing it again was just that – however, it was not meant to be. Though the friendship between Brooke and myself remained more or less stagnant, the relationship between Brooke and Andy progressed to the point of matrimony. So it was that I found myself sitting with Mark at Brooke and Andy’s wedding reception. Again, I positioned myself purposefully distanced from the dance floor at the back corner table. Along with Mark, I conversed with a man I met at Andy’s bachelor party, George, and his wife, Helen. Helen knew Brooke very well; they worked together and apparently shared the affinity of trying to get people to dance when they don’t want to. Luckily, Helen wasn’t as persistent about the notion and was willing to sit and chat instead. While we discussed matters far and wide, Helen snapped a few photos and demanded I take a picture with Brooke when it caught her attention that we were both wearing Chuck Taylors – hers were blue and mine were red. Eventually, Helen pulled George onto the dance floor, and Mark, being part of the wedding party, left to take care of some official wedding business. With no one else around, I settled into my seat at the table and, as I am taken to do, took in the sights around me. A few minutes later, I noticed that Brooke had finished dancing with a relative, and Andy was nowhere in sight. In looking around at the crowd, she spotted me sitting in my corner assuming my usual role of spectator. As was the case years ago, I would not stay the spectator for much longer. Most of the crowd was either on the dance floor or seated around the dance floor by that time, so Brooke had to make her way through part of the crowd to approach me. It was only when she pointed in my direction that I understood exactly what was happening. I attempted to play aloof to the matter, took a drink out of a glass that in retrospect I believe was empty, and gazed at random places in the room. Eventually, however, I made eye contact with Brooke, and she pointed right at me. I jokingly looked behind me as though I was not the intended target, but when Brooke continued walking after me, I realized she was in no joking mood. To save her some walking, I got up and met her halfway to the dance floor. “You’re lucky it’s your wedding,” I remarked. Brooke rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” So again, we took to the floor, and again Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” played throughout the room. The sheer coincidence was enough to make me smile. I took Brooke’s hand, placed my hand on her hip, and danced in the same fashion we danced before. There was still some discomfort being in this situation again – having a hand on her hip again. But this time, there was also a great comfort in understanding the basis of our friendship. Not long after that, I left the dance floor, found Mark, and resumed my role of spectator believing my dancing duties were fulfilled. As is often the case in these matters, I was mistaken. For while Brooke was content to leave me be, Helen took some initiative and ventured to our table. “Will you guys come out and dance?” she asked. I sat dumbfounded, staring at Mark to see he looked much the same. Before either of us could muster a reply, Helen explained herself. “It would mean a lot to Brooke if you guys did.” Mark shrugged his shoulders, willing to play along. I had no recourse but to throw my hat into the ring as well. To ensure we didn’t change our minds, Helen hooked an arm around one of ours respectively and led us to the dance floor. Considering my uncertainty of how to dance with a partner, I was at a total loss when Mark, and I hit the dance floor under the presumption we would just simply dance. I looked to Mark for help, and he was ready to assist. In the movie //Hitch//, Will Smith instructs Kevin James that if a man can’t dance, there is a simple procedure he should follow to insure he does not embarrass himself. Holding his hands out in front of him, bent ninety degrees at the elbows, the man should snap his fingers, take a step to the side, snap again, and step back to his original position. (During the step part of the process, it is permissible to slightly dip the shoulders in the direction of the step.) So, when Mark saw the distress on my face, his advice was simple and well-taken. “Shawn, just Hitch-it,” he said and began demonstrating. “We’ll Hitch-it all night long!” And so we did; surrounded by Helen, George, Andy, and Brooke, we Hitched-it for the better part of an hour. At some point, about halfway through the ordeal, Mark stepped beside me. “How’s it going?” he asked. I shook my head displeased. “I’m not happy right now,” I said as I Hitched-it, “I’m not happy.” Mark laughed, knowing that I was joking because the truth was that I was quite happy. I don’t think that I will ever be a dancer or even become comfortable with the idea of dancing, but under the right circumstances, and provided the proper alignment of the cosmos, dancing is a wonderful way to waste the night away. But perhaps more importantly, I learned something that night about friendship. Some people define it by conversing with each other on a daily basis. Others have photographs and videos to catalog the progression and evolution of the relationship. Some go on vacations, dinners, have parties, and scores of other events to symbolize their camaraderie. Brooke and I…we danced – simply and happily. People come and go as the occurrences of life take them to and fro. Every morning we awake to find the world a little different than it was the day before. For that reason, friendship does not have to be seen on a daily basis. It may need some upkeep from time to time, but it does not require constant care and attention. So long as its constituents will hold onto it, cherish it, and believe in it, then even through the smallest gesture – like a dance at a wedding – we keep it strong.

The Most Egregious Violation of Movie Etiquette I’ve Ever Been Privy To The cinema. It is one of the most glorious experiences a person can go through if experienced properly. True, it does not compare to overwhelming sensation that accompanies actually reading a book, but it is a lot easier and a lot quicker! You may not be big into movies, in which case I doubt you’ll understand half of my grievances, but you’re welcome to try. Personally, I’m a big fan of movies. Ultimately, I prefer a movie with a well-structure plot that crosses multiple genres and either leaves me holding my sides in with laughter or stunned by unprecedented sequences that grace the silver screen. But when push comes to shove, I’ll settle for a mindless two hours of special effects just so my head will shut up for a while. That’s the experience I was hoping for when I went to the movies with my best friend. He had moved to San Antonio just a few months prior, and I was the first to come visit him. We found a theatre not too far from his home and bought a ticket for //The Other Guys// starring Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg. I’m sure you have your own opinion on Will Ferrell and it’s probably quite valid, but for these purposes set aside the movie and just go with it. Anyway, we bought the tickets and walked into the theatre. Saturday afternoon must be a bad time for movies in San Antonio because there were only a few others in the lobby. We were about ten minutes early, which is prime movie time arrival because it allows for a bathroom break and contemplation of concessions. Personally, I always come prepared about the concept of whether or not I’ll be purchasing refreshments, but I try not to judge. I do find it ridiculous the people who want to go into the theatre, get seats, and then go back to the concession stand. I’ll get into why a little later. We approached the ticket-taker and handed her our tickets. She glimpsed at them and said. “I expected guys like you would wanna see //Jackass 3//.” I’m sure that wasn’t meant to be an insult, but being profiled as someone who is expected to see any //Jackass// movie didn’t sit right. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be okay with the idea of seeing //Jackass//; it was one of the possibilities my friend and I considered before we decided on //The Other Guys//. I believe the comment was more geared towards the fact that //The Other Guys// had been out for a while and it was //Jackass//’s opening day. “We thought about it,” my friend said, “but we figured //The Other Guys// would be less crowded.” “That’s true,” the ticket-taker conferred, “and it’s a really funny movie, so good choice by you guys.” “Why, thank you,” I said and we headed to our theatre. You never expect much interaction from the ticket-taker other than a signal as to where your theatre is located. However, it is always nice to get some confirmation on your selection. I’m certain we wouldn’t have chosen a different movie if she had scorned our choice, but her words were kind nevertheless. With under ten minutes to go, we expected a small crowd. Like I said, the movie had been out for a few weeks, but with the hype it had garnered, we assumed there was still a chance others would be coming to see it. As we stepped into the theatre, we got the best surprise a moviegoer could hope for – the theatre was empty! It was like getting fifty dollars for your birthday when you only expected five. Or getting a third Reese’s peanut butter cup in the sleeve. (That’s never happened to me either, but it would be pretty cool) Every seat in the theatre was open. We could sit wherever we wanted, and no one would be around us. Taking a seat in the back third of the room, we could even have a buffer seat between us like every guy wants when he’s sitting next to another guy. It may seem stupid, but it’s true. If guys had our way, the seats wouldn’t necessarily be right next to each other in every row. What you’d have in essentially three different types of seating set-ups. The first type would be the traditional set up where the seats are right next to each other for when we’re on dates and that kind of thing. The second type would have about a two foot gap in between each seat for when we’re out with friends. This becomes the optimal distance for leaning over and whispering comments during the movie. Hopefully everyone took note when I said “whispering.” Then, the final seating would be a combination of the two for when the third wheel is brought along. We’ve all been that wheel and honestly, it doesn’t bother us as much as everyone’s been lead to believe. But we had the buffer seat, so everything was perfect. There was only one thing that could ruin the setting, and that was a couple people coming in and violating movie etiquette. Movie etiquette has taken a severe hit over the past decade with the eruption of cell phone use. There are few reasons why it would ever be appropriate to leave your phone on in a theatre. The one I’ve heard the most is prospective fathers leaving their phone on in case their wife goes into labor. If that’s the case, what kind of horrible husband are you catching the 7:15 when you’re wife’s about to bring your offspring into the world? How about you just wait for the movie to come out on DVD and enjoy the miracle of life. Parents like to keep their phones on when they leave their children at home for the first time. I think I’m gonna have to let this one slide because I’ve heard how paranoid mothers can be about their children and I ain’t gettin’ in the way of that freight train. However, the phone should still be on vibrate and never answered in the actual theatre. If you’re the only one trying to get out, it never takes more than ten seconds to make it to the hallway. Plus, you’re at a movie, what makes you think you’re gonna hear the person on the other line anyway? But cell phones were not my primary concern. I was more concerned with the choice of seating. As I stated earlier, guys prefer a buffer. To be honest, I think everyone prefers a buffer from strangers; some are just too kind to say so. Whenever you enter a movie theatre, your choice of seating should follow two simple rules. Number one, if there’s someone else in the row, you should try to sit two seats away from the other moviegoers. In a pinch, it’s acceptable to sit only one seat away, but it’s not very inviting should the theatre fill up. Number two, you should never sit directly in front or behind of someone if you’re one row behind or in front of them. Two rows back, sit directly behind ‘em. It’s fine, totally acceptable! If ya need a visual, picture the idea that a movie theatre should fill up like the red squares on a checkerboard. Of course, these rules can’t always be followed, especially when the movie’s been recently released. But in this instance, the rules would be extremely easy to follow. At first, it appeared than my concerns were unfounded. No one else came into the theatre by the time the previews had started. By the way, if you’re one of those people who thinks the previews don’t constitute part of movie: A, I feel sorry for you and B, at least have the decency to not ruin it for everyone else. It was about fifteen minutes into the movie, and everything was going well. The movie was pretty funny; my buddy and I were having a good time. And then, it happened. It’s not that often you get to refer to a particular incident as ‘it,’ but this is my ‘it’ time. A woman walked into the theatre. I didn’t see her at first. In fact, I didn’t see her until it was too late. With no regards for her surroundings, she entered our row and sat down…right next to me! Two hundred plus seats in this theatre, ninety-nine per cent of them open and within the bounds of movie etiquette, and she chooses the seat directly next to me. You often hear people with anger management problems speak of a white dot that appears in their vision whenever they’re angry. Then they have the belief that the only way to make the spot go away is to punch it. I found this concept to be an understatement. There was no spot; it took up the entire screen. There’s a five-minute segment of the movie that I completely missed. I assume that if I ever see the movie again, it’ll clear up the plot holes. As I was leaning on the armrest when the woman sat down, I had to shift to an upright position before switching to the other armrest. When I did, I turned to see if my buddy had witnessed this atrocity. He had. And like any good friend, he was reveling in my misfortune. To anyone else, he might have been laughing at the movie. I knew better; he was laughing at me. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t approve of it, but I didn’t blame him. I never turned to see what this woman looked like. It really didn’t matter. She could’ve been the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. A stunning beauty that was the reincarnation of Helen of Troy (if she ever existed) and Cleopatra that would inspire me to write thousands of sonnets in a sequence that would make Shakespeare look like a putz. But the moment she took that seat in that empty theatre, she became the Wicked Witch of the West, and I wanted to throw water on her and have a house drop on her. Fortunately, she remedied her error and moved to a different spot. Normally, I wouldn’t condone changing seats during a movie or even getting up during a movie. It’s like those people who want to get concessions after they’ve gotten seats. Once you’re in the theatre, you’re in the theatre. Don’t get up unless you have a bathroom emergency in the middle of the movie. Then, if you’re okay with missing more of the movie so you can go to the concession stand, go. As far as I’m concerned, you live with the choices you make. Plus, it’s really unnerving to have someone switch seats and suddenly be sitting behind you in the middle of a horror film. If you ever make such a transition, expect a scene. In this instance however, I encouraged the move. I would have applauded it if I believed in that sort of thing. At this point, I was just happy to get to enjoy the movie again. When it ended, my friend and I left the theatre and entered the parking lot. Normally, we’d talk about the movie. Not this time. “When that lady sat next to you,” he said, “I thought I was going to die laughing!” Personally, I didn’t see the humor.

Come Unto the Tree Should ever sorrow claim thee, Or wild things would hound thee, Quickly come and find me And refuge in I, a tree.

Come find me in the Spring, And all your troubles bring. Hide within my green, And of your sorrow sing.

Should you need a kind word, Listen as my leaves are stirred. But I’ll not be deterred If you prefer only to be heard.

And if you’re in a funk, And think the world has sunk Come beat against my trunk Until your anger has shrunk

Do not think that my safety Is ever in true jeopardy For angry as you may be, You will not break this tree.

If the Summer makes you sweat With a feeling of fear and fret, Climb in me, high above the threat, And we shall defeat it yet.

I’ll keep the danger at bay, For all night and through the day. On my branches safe you’ll stay Until the peril goes away.

Or if you need a place to rest To escape heat’s grueling test, You can always be my guest ‘Til you go back to your quest.

But if you wish to stay with me, So happy will I be. Just remember you are free Whenever you wish to leave this tree.

Come see me in the Fall, And we’ll have such a ball. Though my leaves, gone are all, I swear I’ll still stand tall.

While my leaves gather on the ground, And create a giant mound Do not think I can’t be found If ever you’re around.

For though cold breeze may nip the air And my limps quite bare Stand against me where I’ll shield you with tender care

For no matter what happens to me, In this place I’ll always be. What I have I’ll give to thee And hope enough ‘twil be.

So when Winter throws it snow, And frigid winds do blow, When you’ve nowhere left to go, Here’s a secret I do know.

When you came to me at the start, Something happened – a magical art – And you put a home into my heart. There, I’ll keep you ‘til you depart.

Together we’ll weather any storm, And I’ll fight to keep you warm. Though I might lose some of my form, One day, I’ll return to my norm.

So no matter what sights you see, If ever you feel the need to flee There will always be a place for thee So come unto this tree.

Dear My Love II Dear my love, answer me true, was that you Twas caught within some corner of mine eye? Was it you who turned the grey sky to blue And made the broken-winged bird once more fly?

For I thought I held you within mine arms And felt the beating of two kindred hearts Whilst basking in the glow of love’s sweet charms Only to feel sweet sorrow from when one parts

For in my arms, I held a waning dream; My heart had heard but echoes of desire These manifestations of hope did scheme To make of me a dope, a fool, a liar.

If fool must I be just to see your sight The fool I’ll be and sleep with peace at night.

Could I Be a Butterfly Could I be a butterfly Even though I am a guy? I don’t think most guys would, So I’m not sure if I should.

Something about the term, Just makes our stomach churn! They’re so pretty, soft, and sweet, And no guy wants that rap sheet!

But then the thought have I, That it wouldn’t be so bad to try. From flower to flower I’d putter, And in the air I’d lightly flutter?

I could be such a sight, And fill people with delight. Erupt in beauty from my cocoon, And sparkle under midnight moon.

Maybe I’d even be a glorious scene Of yellow, red, blue, and green? Be so gentle with delicate flower, That I seduce it with my power.

So could I be such a butterfly Even though I am a guy? I’m sure by now that you can guess The answer must be…NO!

Patrick, this thing ended up with a bunch of different fonts. Please pick a font and make it the same throughout this document in the Anthology. Thanks, Meg

The One Thing About Paul by Meg Rice.

I adore almost everything about my husband, Paul. He is generous with friends, family and strangers in danger or need. He shows his love and caring through action; doing the yard work, filling the gas tank in my car for me, taking the pulse of family finances and paying the bills on time or early, and helping me with the laundry. He is strong of mind, body and faith. Paul remembers everything and, therefore, is a walking lesson in history, science, or art; any subject, take your pick.

This man is brilliant about all things involving cause and effect relationships, drawing conclusions and predicting outcomes based upon listening, watching, observing and remembering. He can listen to the news and predict future excuses for a new war and where it will break out, financial crashes and other self-inflicted disasters created by human hands. He accomplishes this by employing an ability to “put the pieces together” or recognize history as it repeats itself. This is a special kind of wisdom I greatly admire.

Paul can fix any broken object or teach himself to make repairs when the need arises. He’s funny, kind, forgiving, and always acts with highest integrity. His faith in God is unshakable and I respect his commitment to live by the lessons Jesus taught. His word is his bond, and that is rare nowadays.

My professional respect for Paul began the first time I watched him teach art to first graders in my Ohio classroom. Paul led their thinking and solutions, to create works of art, by asking questions of my students, rather than showing and telling what //he// wanted. He armed our students with concepts, materials, and a problem to solve in completing any given project. It was up to the students to sort out their unique responses. This wise mode of questioning continued and was used with our children at home. My respect for him increased as he wisely conferred and explained as we counseled and trained our daughter and son. The seeds of my love for Paul were planted and grew as I observed his respectful manner with everyone he met. My love for Paul continues to grow as do our years together. But best of all, he’s so stinking cute. He still has his little boy face and pinch-able cheeks, despite his many decades on this earth. In a word, cute!

BUT…if asked, “What in this world really bugs you?” as I was asked today, one thing instantly comes to mind: What bugs me is Paul’s insistence upon cuff-rolling our clean socks, in a manner that, I believe, is barbaric and abusive to the socks and eventually to the wearer of said socks.

1. Paul aligns two clean socks at the top of the ribbed neck, lays them down to align the toes, establishing them as a pair. This isn’t secure enough for him. If he allows the toes to dangle freely, kicking at air, they will certainly attack the hapless piece of clothing unfortunate enough to find itself within striking distance in that laundry basket. To avoid such scenes, he lets the socks know-who’s-boss in the second step.

2. It is this step, this mutilation, that sets my teeth on edge, makes me cringe in discomfort and run to undo the damage before it becomes permanent.

Do not let small children read this part. If you are reading this aloud, please, send them from the room immediately! I will wait.

2. Continued: For the second step, with ribbed necks aligned, Paul hold the socks by the offending toes, rolls them up like a fruit-roll-up, then stops within about two inches of the upper edge.

Up until this point, no permanent injury to sock or elastic has occurred. But jump-back-Jack, here it comes!

3. Securing the inner sock and the inner lip of the outer sock against the roll with his left thumb, he inserts his right thumb into the outer sock, and places the other four fingers on the outside of the outer sock, which is now trembling in fear. The outer sock neck is then pulled, stretched, and dragged backwards over itself to form a ball containing both socks rolled inside, at which point every strand of elastic in the neck of the socks resemble tightly tuned guitar strings. I will grant you, these round, bouncy, sock balls lent themselves to playful tossing, shooting baskets and other laundry day merriments. However, such games always made a mockery of the pain in the necks of our socks, which haunted my thoughts and sympathies until I could release my socks from bondage.

Paul's belief, that socks remain paired by this means alone, is unshakable. Conversely, once I have aligned the ribbed necks, I simply lay the matched pair together, fold them over at their mid-point and stack them by color. It’s quick. It requires no brain cell activity, no one ever developed carpal tunnel injuries from this technique, and it works.

Paul contends he detests the daily fumbling in a sock drawer in a futile attempt to find the mate for the exact shade of brown to match the offending single sock in hand. In the past, I’ve suggested that if he rummaged amongst the pairs less forcibly, perhaps then, his socks would not separate. He says, if he doesn’t cuff-roll them into pairs, they are on the loose the next morning.

I truly can’t imagine, and frankly don’t want to know, what is going on in Paul’s sock drawer at night to detach one sock from another. Mine, I am proud to report, just lay around like well mannered socks, waiting for dawn’s light to greet them upon the daily opening of the sock drawer. I always find them neatly stacked, by color, with looks of anticipation, on their little woven faces, as they wonder, “Will she pick me today?”

Paul’s drawer on the other hand, resembles a nest of snakes, if I have folded his socks, rather than cuff-rolled them. He suggests they had a wild party or convention overnight and that sock-rolling is the only means by which such unruly socks can be forced to remain with their mates and behave. Again, I would rather not go there.

This whole business of whether to roll or fold has been a point of contention since the first week of our married life, when we folded the first loads of //our// laundry. If Paul could have stopped that hideous habit, if he could have learned a new sock folding drill, if he could have just call it good on my socks and folded them, I would have expressed delight rather than defensive horror each time he announced, “Meg, I folded the laundry for you.” Those words were guaranteed to set my feet in motion, initiated by a surge of adrenaline, as I race the clock to remove the offending cuff-rolls from my socks. Time was of the essence in saving the elastic from permanent disfiguration and damage.

Now, I am probably treading on sacred ground here, when you think about it. I mean, from whom do you suppose Paul learned this sock-rolling trick in the first place? No doubt; his mother. Right? It is possible that Paul revisits fond memories every time he takes two unfolded socks in hand. Memories that take him back to his childhood, to the first wash day his mother “let him” help fold the family laundry. She probably used the socks as a starter lesson, before challenging him with the more difficult T-shirts. Wash day was a major daily undertaking for a woman with eight children, a washtub, a hand-cranked mangle and no electric drier. Teaching Paul, the eldest son, to fold laundry was, most likely, a matter of survival on her part. Therefore, it is quite possibly ethically and morally wrong of me to chide him about this matter.

Yet, I simply can’t help myself.

It was not until I fervently and repeatedly requested that Paul not sock-roll my precious socks, as he did his own, that the abuse finally ceased. It was not until I explained my irritation at racing across the playground at recess, to a fallen child, with warm woolen socks alternately creeping down my calves and coming to a final bunchy resting place upon my ankles, that Paul got my point. Without elastic to hold my socks up, each gust of icy, Kansas wind chilled my ankles to a deeper shade of blue. With every cold blast, I could be heard to curse beneath my breath, “I detest sock-rollers! I detest sock-rollers! ” To my cries of protest, Paul initially responded, “Just wear boots and your socks will stay up all day.”

I did not feel heard!

It took years, for Paul to break himself of what he considered a sincerely helpful habit, one that served him well for years. There are still the occasional lapses of memory when the old habit kicks in, but not so frequent as to inflict permanent damage. Yes, I am happy to say, that Paul mostly rolls only his socks, our marriage continues to cause our children no concern, and my socks are as elastic and resilient as the day they came home from the store.